It's hard to imagine a more lovely May. With some recent rains the lawns are lush and green, and the creek is freshly filled. Wednesday morning I grabbed a poem and headed down to the Yellow Breeches to muse. A family of birds were chattering noisily in a hollow in the sycamore tree above me. Every time a parent would arrive, the squawking would intensify. At one point an oriole settled on a distant branch; the orange happy against the blue sky. As I headed home, a red-winged blackbird gazed at me from a signpost before launching into the sky. Like Milton, I felt blessed.
Song on a May Morning
Now the bright morning-star, Day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing;
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.